hit counter
Creative Commons License

you probably don’t
remember but one
Sunday evening I
was lying in bed
trying to sleep and
you texted me

are you okay?

and it meant the world
to me, it let me know that
somebody cares

eliciting the boy
in the springtime
shorts who trims
the roses, the dahlias
and gets his hands wet
with the morning dew

i feel like a flower shop,
the old man said to me

his eyes all abloom

he let himself
be kissed without
resistance

he went so long
at not feeling
somebody else’s
lips that he was

surprised to
find the soft supple
curvative of the many
fine lines on his (the
boy he had the kind of
gentle abandon feelings
for) slightly moist skin

Sometimes being very discerning
can hurt very much

he asked if i knew

that the man who
went to Harvard but then
incurred a traumatic brain
injury because he got hit
with a baseball bat in the back
of the head in the hard part of
washington DC for the 20 dollars
in his pocket who now looks like a
fat baby who carries around a
fart machine where in public he
bends over and unleashes large electronic
farts for all the old ladies in the vicinity

could play all the partitas and fugues
by Bach by heart

The boy
with long hair
and olive skin
with a necklace
made of almonds
in an amber
dream of falling
his chest is
exposed and his
collar bone is
sweetly defined
and his eyes
have the sheepish
sleepiness of
jasmine
growing on
vines…

happymonk:

(gigantic copulation (the original))

Man urges for
a gigantic copulation
as nature rolls about among
threshing floors of flowers
and young boys emerge
from the waters
glistening
and naked girls
touch themselves
in the sun to be seen
through the green openings
of the nearby bushes.

19 years old and raw
the children of the world
press their lips
against
chastity and swallow
volumes of little
erotic wells

the soul longs in
vain to be lost among
the all saturating earth
— overflowing — the sea offers us
a bounty of happiness
If only we’d seek it and find
it, I’ve got it! we’d say
grasping it in silken hands
stroking it in essence of
human desire, worshiping it
as if never to forgive
the universe for darkness.

we have gotten
so far that

the old woman who
was a little girl in
Poland and was put
in a concentration camp
where her whole family
died and she was saved
by a Russian soldier who
said to her in yiddish
you’re free,

gives matzoh
ball soup

to another old woman who
was a little girl who lived in
southern Bavaria who remembers
allied planes dropping bombs
on her town and then taking down
the swastika flag that hung from a pole
on her father’s ruined farm

time

i got a phone call
at the cafe i work
at from a woman
asking for help
to find her husband
she said it was an
emergency and that
her husband was
needed immediately

i made the announcement
but nobody heard me

everybody had their
earphones in

and then i remembered
reading in the news the other day
of a man who was riding the subway
during rush hour in the morning
and the man was waving around
a pistol, he was using the pistol
to scratch his head and rub it
against his body until at last
he used it to kill a boy
about my age
a 20 year old college student
by shooting him in the back of
the head and i remembered
reading the article in the newspaper

and the article wasn’t about
a guy who killed a boy on the subway

the article was about
how nobody noticed.

Franz Kafka said
to me through
constant lines of
nocturnal despair, it
is there, that’s why we’re
here, to find it

life’s splendors

I remember
pretending I could
read your palm
just so I could
hold your hand.

i open a beautiful
and rare copy of vaslav
nikinsky’s diaries and
on the title page is
inscribed a message
that says,

on valentine’s
day 1992, to scott, dancer
of my life, yesterday, today,
tomorrow, for life

and around the whole thing
is drawn a heart

and i think, i wonder what
happened to them, the giver
and the receiver

but then i see that the
book is here

Just received my contribution copy of the Tribeca Poetry Review (an indie press out of lower Manhattan) with my poem called, to Frida

the modern poet was
telling me that what
i was writing has been
written about before
and so
was not worth
writing about again

and i said that it doesn’t
matter if somebody has written
about before if nobody is
reading about it now

eternity

once i was
humbled by
a flower who
told me that
i was doing it
all wrong that
i should be
gentle calm
and free
look at me
the flower said
i’m so good
at existence
i blossom.